I am trying to get back into the swing of writing after a busy week. Last time I seriously wrote anything was a week ago. It was a good day though, I think I wrote something around 5,000 words. I keep reminding myself though that it isn’t about word count and it isn’t about page count. I am doing this because I need to. It isn’t about quantitative measures. It is about my internal need to write. It is about my love of words. It is about having to get a story out of me that is dying to be born.
I sit here at my desk, trying to discover more of the story I have to write. I have been neglecting it and hiding it in the corner of my mind. It is a weird sensation–fear of your own imagination. I feel like my story is supposed to be much darker than I have been writing. There are parts that have come out recently and I am thinking I need to take it even farther. It is almost as though the two stories I have written are intertwining. I don’t know if I should go that way, or if I should keep them separate. Maybe this is why author’s suggest NOT to write more than one story at a time. I can’t help it though. There is something that seems to be just out of reach that I am supposed to be including in my story.
It is comparable to how I have felt when I have been out the two nights this last week. Here is the typical scenario that happens when I was out. I get super excited to see people and because of that excitement, I cannot put my thoughts together and I talk about crazy ass shit. I get so wrapped up in my own head and my own feelings about what is going on around me that it expresses itself in odd ways. I get these ideas in my head that I have to get out of me–whether in conversation or in writing. It is much easier for me to get it out in writing, but apparently, with these ideas I keep having–the outcome in writing is just as obscure. I won’t get into it on here, because as River Song always says, “Spoilers.”